


unfinished/ideas

by pastelwolfie



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Mild Gore, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Unfinished, attention span where?, literally 0 comfort these aren’t finished it’s just hurt, murder? fuck yeah, no beta we die like friend, no endings, prompts? more like story openers lol, unsatisfactory endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:41:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28818684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelwolfie/pseuds/pastelwolfie
Summary: things i know i’m never finishingi’m dumping them herethat’s itit’s just ideas i never got around to finishing bc my attention changed alignment
Relationships: TBA - Relationship, maybe siblings, they all friends - Relationship
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi welcome to shit i’m never finishing
> 
> in vol.1 we have techno’s pov of what was supposed to be ranboo’s untrialed execution at quackity’s hand but hey ho i lost motivation for it and here we are

maybe a morning trip wasn’t the best idea.  
he’d give tommy that, but he was honestly way too tired of midnight runs and fucking over his sleep schedule even more, so a morning run it was.  
last time he slept in he was taken away for execution so hey- lesson leant, i guess?

the dogs were fine, they’d checked up on them, fed them some, then went on their merry way. they were passing through the community house when they heard a screech from the direction of the execution stand.  
uh oh.

tommy have him a strained look of mild concern and more annoyance, if anything.  
“ugh, fine. we’ll have 12 minutes.”  
he gave in, reaching for one of his splash potions.  
invisibility.  
making sure it wasn’t wasted, he caught the both of them in the mist that began swirling when the glass shattered on the wooden floor.

then, the two of them started heading out- back in to l’manburg, and away from the nether portal.  
his jaw dropped slightly as the figures became clearer, and they began picking up on scraps of the loud conversation.

“how could you?”  
“we trusted you!”  
“guys- you’re overreacting, maybe-“

“i think there’s an obvious answer to this problem.”  
a calmer, more collected voice silenced the squabble, everyone turning to look at dream. the masked man was invited? huh.

“oh? what is it?”  
quackity’s voice held its usual snark, through intrigue and curiosity laced it. he and tommy had ventured closer (well, he had, he wasn’t sure where tommy was but he could only assume he’d followed the unspoken advice.) to the stand, he was practically on it already, now hearing much more.

“if he’s dead, he can’t hurt anyone, right? why not just do that?”

the suggestion was, of course, met with outrage from all sides. even his stomach lurched. niki, fundy and eret looked livid and wild with fear, sapnap and punz looked mildly uncomfortable, tubbo looked profoundly taken aback but quackity...   
he’d seen that face before.  
at his trial.

“shit,” he muttered, realising he had only about 2 minutes left of invis when quackity made a move. a bold one, yes, but holy shit what-  
“quackity, no!”  
the scream came from niki, incoherent pleas and cries erupting from all over, including tubbo, but excluding dream- who looked eerily satisfied.

quackity has thrown himself at ranboo, wings unfolding behind him so when they both got thrown off the platform, they guided them safely through the air and to the docks.  
oh  
oh no

the next few minutes were a blur, but there was a mad dash to the docks, screams of pain from the water, blood- blood- his? someone’s. blood for the blood god.

then silence.  
he was snapped back into reality at the sound of tommy’s harsh voice, cutting through the mist in his mind with venom he’d never quite heard from the teen before.  
“why- why am i here? tubbo- you were going to let quackity murder your right hand-man! why do you even care?”  
techno had to give tommy that one, really. anyone in any position of power with tubbo always seemed to get into trouble.  
see schlatt. and tommy. and now ranboo, apparently. and wilbur- did that count? probably.


	2. apocalypse au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> namesake, never finishing, not rlly that original lol

you could call them lucky: lucky for being on a secluded paradise island, lucky to have the climate for decent farming and local wildlife sanctuary.

or you could call them unlucky. unlucky to be caught in the middle of a city. unlucky to be living through the fallout of the literal apocalypse.

they had eachother though, right?  
eachother.

they had fled the city, loosing friends and family.  
they were all that was left- there had been hundreds of them, thousands on the island.   
now they were split up, trying to find eachother. reunite.  
a few managed to kick out in bigger groups, others being paired or separated into threes, but just his luck.  
his wonderful luck.  
he was alone.  
well, now he was. i used to travel with a friend, addison, but she hadn’t lasted very long.  
nope.

it was him, his guitar and his wits against a city seething with nightmares and things straight out of a lovecraft novel.  
he had always complained, but he missed the noise of his family right about now.

he was staying on the roof of a taller building, hidden in the greenhouse (now overrun) that sat atop the building. it was hot, but got the job done: kept him in, kept the monsters out. simple as.  
until not so simple.  
noise. voices. loud. not monsters, no, they sounded... happy?  
sucking in a breath, wilbur stood up, guitar still in its case, slung over his shoulder, and exited the greenhouse to look down at the now abandoned city street below. it had begun getting overgrown with weeds and plant life from surrounding vegetation patches. surreal, almost.  
and right there, right below him, stood a group of people he recognised like family, friends and then outright strangers.

from their forms he could make out a fatherly phil, flanked closely by tommy and tubbo. could it be- that had to be techno’s pink hair, rigtt her? then there was split hair, white and black- gods, was it ranboo? then there was someone with black hair, and a white bandanna? was that what it was called? someone beside him in an obnoxious green hoodie, then someone in a aquamarine blue tee. there were a few others he couldn’t entirely make out- some form or red and black hoodie? a beanie?   
his heart must have stopped, staring agape.  
surely not?   
eyes filled with confusion as the group of... 9?10? he wasn’t processing anything properly. they all started pointing to the sky and yelling something like ‘cover!’ and’ ‘hide!’ when realisation hit him.  
shit.  
the skies.  
turning, he saw an all-too familiar shape headed his way, soaring on large wings.  
a sky-crawler.  
that’s what he called them, anyways. they were these horrid creatures, wolf-like in body, but instead of forelegs it had massive, flapping wings and the feet of its back (and only) legs were clawed like that of an eagle.  
it didn’t have any arms.

it was close. closer than he could fight off. his only hope was that maybe, maybe it was weak and couldn’t carry him.  
maybe.  
probably not.

not really? it had tried to pick him up. it had. it just hadn’t been able to carry him. he let out a screech, before trying to reach for the dagger he had strapped to a holster on his thigh, digging the blade into its flesh wherever he could. they had began plummeting, before he hit the pavement.

it hurt, but it wasn’t so bad. the wings had slowed their descent. maybe.

now on the ground, with the upper hand, he let himself slip into somewhat of a muscle-memory routine of slashing with the blade, ending with a very much not alive sky-crawler on the floor.  
it had been young, maybe just over a month or two.

frozen only now by the sound of a gun coking behind him, he placed the dagger back into its holder, raising his hands a in an ‘i surrender’ motion.

“who are you?”  
strange. british- clipped, maybe more so than him. chad. why did that pop into his head?  
“‘m names wilbur. soot.” he replied, not turning to face the other brit.   
he had absurd glasses on, reminiscent of goggles. strange. he opted to travel with a guitar though, so, no comment, really.

“wil?” a familiar tone.  
warm. nice. soft. comforting.  
phil.  
“phil?” the name tasted foreign on his tongue. it had been a while since he’d called him anything other than dad.


End file.
